Jumah eyed her. “That’s a good point. I will consider it. So, you want us to create a temporary landing field for you.”
“Yes,” Quinn agreed. “I do.”
“And we will,” Jumah continued. “But only if you and your soldiers can shield us from government planes and helicopters. Is such a thing possible?”
Quinn knew it would be a mistake to promise too much, and chose her words with care. “To some extent, yes. We had two Strela shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles prior to capturing Shagol airbase. We acquired two additional launchers there. And after destroying four attack helicopters we have the necessary expertise.”
Jumah’s eyes widened. “You took Shagol? And you destroyed four helicopters?”
“Yes,” Quinn replied. “But it wasn’t easy. We used RPGs to nail one of them. That said, the Strelas were quite effective.
“But,” Quinn warned, “if the government comes after us with a large number of aircraft, and if the government employs them effectively, they’ll win.”
Jumah tugged at his beard. “You speak honestly. I like that.”
Jumah turned to Dean. “Tell me about the shoulder launched missiles that we will acquire.”
“Assuming we complete the airstrip,” Dean replied, “a plane will deliver 24 FIM-92 Stinger Man-Portable Air-Defense Systems or MANPADS. Each missile will have an outward-bound targeting range of up to 15,000 feet, and be capable of engaging enemy threats up to 12,000 feet away. What’s more,” Dean added, “these weapons will be equipped with dual IR and UV detector-seekers which can distinguish actual targets from decoys like flares.”
“That’s very impressive,” Karimov put in. “But it’s important to remember that the missiles will come with six American advisors who, if they become unhappy with us, can withhold training, parts, and reloads.”
“Ah,” Jumah said. “Aybek is correct. You must provide Russian missiles. We can capture more.”
Dean shook his head. “I’m sorry, but that isn’t what we agreed to. Besides, it isn’t as if we have access to an unlimited supply of Strelas.”
Jumah frowned. “What if I say, ‘no?’ Your soldiers won’t be able to escape.”
“You gave your word,” Dean said gently. “With Allah as your witness and guarantor.”
Jumah hadn’t uttered those exact words. But any time a Muslim made a promise it was with the understanding that Allah was party to it.
Jumah chuckled. “I have met my match.”
Dean smiled. “As a sign of friendship and goodwill we will present Sin Jol with a second bar of gold prior to departure.”
Jumah clapped his hands. “We have a deal. Let’s get to work.”
***
By the time the meeting with Caliph Jumah came to an end, it was too late to start work on the airstrip, not to mention the fact that the men and women of the 152nd were exhausted. And Quinn was no exception.
After eating most of an MRE, and taking a lukewarm shower in the female bathing facility, Quinn went to her personal cave. It was equipped with a wooden door, a creaky bed, a thin mattress, a wooden stool, and a slit-style window which was open to the outside.
That meant it was cold enough for Quinn to see her breath as she got into the sleeping bag. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was the chance to have some privacy, to enjoy some warmth, and to get what she hoped would be eight hours of shuteye.
Quinn slept like a log, and awoke nine hours later, to discover that a cold-gray light pervaded the room. The bag was warm and the room temperature was in the low 30s. So, the last thing Quinn wanted to do was get up.
But a full bladder plus the anxious feeling in her gut were enough to motivate her. How were the wounded doing? Had her people been fed? And what about the airstrip?
Those questions were sufficient to force Quinn out into the chilly air to get dressed, and go looking for coffee. That was when she ran into Master Sergeant Wilkins. “Good morning, ma’am. Would you like a hot breakfast? If so, follow me.”
After some twists and turns, Wilkins led Quinn into a large, well-lit cavern. It was equipped with folding tables and a buffet line. Clusters of soldiers were visible, but most of the men in the cafeteria were Kazakhs. And the fare was better than anything Quinn had eaten since landing in Kyshtym.
As Quinn made her way through the line, she took two pillow-shaped baursaki, which were similar to doughnuts in terms of taste and consistency. A bowl of porridge topped with blueberries and a mug of strong Kazakh coffee completed the meal.
The two of them joined Dr. Gulin and CSM McKenzie at a table for six. “Good morning,” Gulin said. “You look rested for a change.”
“I feel rested,” Quinn replied, as she dunked a baursaki into her coffee. “How are your patients doing?”
“They’re stable,” Gulin replied. “And that’s saying a lot, given what they’ve been through. Some of them will require surgery when we get back.”
“When we get back.” Quinn savored the words. Maybe, just maybe, they would get back. “Where’s Captain Andruko?”
“Right where you’d want him to be,” McKenzie replied. “Starting work on the airstrip. Lieutenant Salazar is in charge of security.”
“Good,” Quinn said. “It sounds like we’re off to a good start.”
That’s what Quinn said, but she had lots of questions, and was determined to get some answers. To what extent was Sin Jol participating in the construction effort? What sort of defenses were already in place? And could they be improved? Where were the MANPADS positioned? And on and on.
Once breakfast was over Quinn went back to her room for the assault rifle and her parka. Then, with McKenzie in tow, she made her way down two flights of worn steps to the vehicle park. The first thing she noticed was that the truck, trailer, and bulldozer were missing. As they should be if work was underway.
Then Quinn noticed that Zoey Segal and another soldier were busy working on Tractor 2. The one that belonged to Sin Jol. McKenzie anticipated her question. “It wouldn’t start so Segal’s working on it. Assuming she succeeds, we’ll have two tractors on the job.”
Quinn liked the sound of that. Two enormous doors protected the main entrance. They were made of wood reinforced with steel straps. That was fine back in 1800. But no longer sufficient. Once outside Quinn found herself on the periphery of the ruins she’d seen coming in. McKenzie led her in a counterclockwise direction.
“Our primary OP is located on top of the mesa,” the CSM told her. “In a stone hut. The lookouts have an incredible view. But, when the planes and helos arrive, they’ll be forced to withdraw.”
That made sense. As they emerged from the maze Quinn saw that the Tigr was positioned behind the remains of a limestone wall, with its heavy machine gun peeking over the top. Salazar was there to greet her. “Good morning, Major.”
“Good morning, Lieutenant. I like the way you positioned the Tigr.”
Salazar was visibly pleased. “The machinegun has a clear field of fire.”
Quinn nodded. “When the ground assault comes the enemy will try to reach the front door. But they may attempt to scale the mountain too. And we don’t have enough troops to protect the entire perimeter. So, what’s the plan?” Quinn saw McKenzie open his mouth and close it from the corner of her eye.
Quinn could tell that the possibility that government troops would try to scale the mesa hadn’t occurred to Salazar. But he produced an answer nevertheless. “I think we should establish a quick response force up top, ma’am. If someone starts to climb, we’ll shoot down at them. Problem solved.”
“Good,” Quinn said. “Make that happen. But remember, the enemy climbers might try to make the ascent during an air raid, when our people are under cover.
“Yes, the climbers would run the risk of being killed by their own bombs, but what if they’re willing to take that chance? Once on top of the mesa they could do a lot of damage. Think on that one, and get back to me.”
Salazar nodded. “Yes, ma�
��am.”
“The lieutenant is coming along,” McKenzie said, as they followed a set of tire tracks south.
“I agree,” Quinn replied, as she eyed the area ahead. It was fairly level, but Quinn could see a swale they would have to fill in before a plane could land.
Quinn could hear the roar of a diesel engine, but couldn’t see the source until a bulldozer lurched up out of a hole, to push a wave of dirt toward an existing pile. Andruko was at the controls. He waved to her. After shutting the engine off, he jumped to the ground. “Good morning, Major.”
“It’s snowing Captain.”
“That good,” the Ukrainian replied cheerfully. “Ceiling too low for planes and helicopters. But it clear soon.”
That was news to Quinn and another thing to worry about. “What’s the hole for?”
“Dig pits for tractors,” Andruko replied. “Government planes destroy with direct hits. But nothing less do job. When warning comes drive bulldozers down ramps.”
“That’s very clever,” Quinn replied. “Well done. What warning?”
“Aybek’s operatives tell him the moment a plane or helo takes off from nearest base,” Andruko answered. “And he warn us.”
That was a game changer. Quinn felt a surge of hope. “That’s wonderful! What else can we accomplish before the weather clears?”
“Aybek has 100 fighters,” Andruko told her. “Most no formal training. We give CSM interpreter and hold one-day boot camp. Nothing fancy. Divide into four platoons, pick Sin Jol leader for each, add noncom for advice.”
“I like it,” McKenzie said. ‘So long as the platoon leaders will follow orders.”
“I’ll speak to Aybek about that,” Quinn said. “And I thought of something else we need to do. I’ll ask Master Sergeant Wilkins to organize our air defenses.”
“Tom will organize the hell out of it,” McKenzie predicted.
“Good,” Quinn replied. “Why is everyone standing around? We have work to do.”
That was the beginning of a long day. The snow fell until midafternoon when, true to Andruko’s prediction, the sky began to clear.
Four equally spaced pits were dug along the length of the proposed airstrip which, with help of a Sin Jol surveyor, was marked with stakes. According to Dean a loaded C-17 had to have at least 3,500 feet of runway to takeoff.
So, in order to give the “Moose” some leeway, Quinn ordered Andruko to make the strip 3,700 feet long. Meanwhile, under the CSM’s stern tutelage, and with help from the advisors assigned to each Sin Jol platoon, the “Kazakh Rifles” were learning the basics of how to prepare a fighting position, coordinate fire, and hit what they aimed at.
When night fell Quinn ordered Pruitt to put drones up, and keep them flying in rotation, lest the enemy use infantry to attack during the hours of darkness. That effort paid off around 0100 when a private arrived to wake Quinn from a fitful sleep.
Quinn heard the knock, pushed the bag down off her boots, and went to the door. “What’s up?”
“Pruitt wants you come take a look at some drone footage, ma’am.”
“Okay,” Quinn said. “Lead the way.” A flashlight was required to negotiate the corridors at night. And, to the private’s credit, she knew where she was going.
It took less than five minutes to reach what the troops referred to as “The Bat Cave.” Pruitt was there, along with Wilkins, and Dan Dean. “Hey there,” he said. “I’m sorry to call you out, but we thought you’d want to see this.”
“I have the Raven up,” Pruitt explained. “We have a steady stream of tangos arriving from the south.”
As Quinn looked at the screen, she saw that the operator was correct. A column of infrared blobs was northbound. “Well, that sucks,” Quinn said. “But to be expected.”
“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “Maybe they will attack tonight. But I figure they’re going to hunker down and wait for the air force to bomb the crap out of us early in the morning. Then they’ll come hard.”
Quinn turned to Wilkins. “I agree with Dan. But don’t call the company out just yet. We’ll do so if we have to, but if they can score some more sleep, that would be good.
“Check to see if the Sin Jol cooks can have something hot ready at 0300. We’ll deploy at 0330. Oh, and rouse Captain Andruko. Tell him to bring our tractor in. What’s the status on Tractor 2 by the way?”
Wilkins grinned. “Segal got it running.”
“That girl rocks,” Quinn said. “Tell her she just made corporal. Any questions? No? Then let’s prepare to fight.”
Quinn met with Karimov after that, and was pleased to learn that the effort to integrate the 152nd with the newly formed Kazakh Rifles was going well, and the Muslim fighters were eager to fight. “And,” Karimov added, “the Caliph deserves a lot of the credit for that.”
“How so?”
“He’s going to stay and fight,” Karimov replied proudly.
The possibility, no probability, that Caliph Jumah would flee, hadn’t occurred to Quinn. It should have. Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, the man who led ISIL, wasn’t known for fighting himself. So, based on that example, Jumah could be expected to run for it. The fact that he hadn’t would not only buoy Sin Jol morale, but help to further his rep, assuming he survived.
Quinn made the rounds after that, paused to shoot the shit with as many soldiers as she could, and sat with some during breakfast. The stand-to was scheduled for 0330. The planes attacked 47 minutes later.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The City of Stones, Kazakhstan
Quinn was in the Bat Cave when the government planes attacked. As was Master Sergeant Wilkins, Pruitt and the other techs.
But Dean was on top of the mesa where he could use his sat phone and communicate with Quinn by radio. “According to Sin Jol operatives seven Su-25s are inbound. And folks back home have confirmed that. Over.”
Quinn knew that Dean was receiving real time Intel from the agency, the Pentagon, or both. And that was a plus. But the mesa was still going to take a beating. Rather than send the fighters in two at a time, with instructions to provide infantry support, it seemed that a high-ranking Kazakh officer thought that the seven planes could bludgeon the 152nd to death.
Quinn spoke into her boom mike. “This is Six. You heard the man … We’re about to take a pounding. With the single exception of our anti-air teams, stay under cover, and don’t stick your head out until I give the order to do so.
“The enemy’s infantry can’t advance very far so long as the planes are attacking the mesa. So, we’ll wait the bastards out.”
***
Dean, Wilkins, and Anti-Air Team 1 were huddled in the stone hut where sentries and lookouts had taken shelter for hundreds, if not a thousand, years. Would it withstand a rocket attack? Dean hoped so. Team 2 was located on the opposite side of the mesa in some ruins.
“Here they come,” a lookout announced. “In from the east. Over.”
“This is Alpha-Seven,” Wilkins said. “The Anti-Air teams will standby. And remember the one-two punch we talked about. Over.”
Dean knew that the words “one-two punch” referred to the noncom’s decision to create two teams, each having two launchers, rather than go with four widely dispersed weapons. The noncom’s theory was that if chaff drew a Strela off target, a second weapon would be ready to fire, and might have a better chance of success. The concept was entirely unproven insofar as Dean knew, but had been approved by Quinn, who was willing to take a chance.
Dean stood just outside the hut looking east. The sound of jet engines filled the air as the Russian planes arrived to circle above. They attacked one at a time. The first Su-25 arrived from the north. Rockets flashed off its wings as Dean stepped into the hut.
It was virtually impossible for the pilot to miss the mesa and he didn’t. Explosions marched across the top of the rock formation. Each one of them threw an accumulation of snow and limestone into the air as the jet roared over.
Then a second plane attacked, followed
by a third, each from a different point of the compass. And, as the last Su-25 pulled up out of its dive, a Strela missile flashed upward. The missile’s infrared homing seeker found the heat produced by one of the fighter’s engines and locked on.
The pilot fired flares, but too late. Both Dean and Wilkins were outside by then. They watched the missile’s white contrail follow the plane up to vanish in an orange-red explosion. The resulting BOOM rolled across the land. Wilkins was yelling and pumping his right fist when Dean jerked him back into the hut.
Flaming debris was still falling from the sky as the next plane arrived from the south. If the Kazakh aviators had been dispassionate about the mission in the beginning they weren’t now. The Sukhoi’s 30mm cannon roared and rockets exploded as the pilot sought to find the anti-air teams and kill them. But the MANPAD operators were in well prepared positions and survived the attack.
The 5th and 6th planes attacked nearly wing-tip to wing-tip from the west. Both fired flares as they swooped in. The launchers were loaded and Wilkins was ready. “All teams will prepare to fire on my command,” the master sergeant said over the radio. “Ready, aim, fire!”
Four Strelas left their tubes within seconds of each other. Wilkins and Dean watched as a missile chased a flare and blew up. Another sensed the heat and turned. Wilkins swore as it disappeared in a flash of light. They were 0 for 2.
Then something remarkable occurred. Perhaps the Kazakh pilots thought they were out of range. But for whatever reason they stopped firing flares.
The remaining missiles homed in on the same plane. Twin explosions blew the Su-25 to bits. Tiny pieces of metal fell like aluminum confetti, each trailing a thin tendril of black smoke, as they twirled into the snow.
The surviving jet curved away, climbed, and joined the rest. But this time, rather than attack, the Su-25s continued to circle.
***
The staff in the Bat Cave cheered. Quinn grinned. “This is Six. Nice going people … But keep your eyes peeled. This isn’t over yet.”
“Here they come,” Pruitt said, her eyes red with fatigue.
Quinn stepped over to take a look. There was enough light to see by at that point. And a wild assortment of mostly wheeled vehicles was passing through the troops headed north to the mesa. And as each Tigr and personnel carrier advanced a dozen infantrymen fell in behind it. “This is Six,” Quinn told them. “Hold your fire.”
Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4) Page 26
